A story is an idea, wild as a weed, springing up wherever it is planted.

Wait, so is it waves, or doors, or conversations?""It can be anything you like.""You're a wretched teacher.""I warned you. If you're not up to it–""Shut up. I'm concentrating.

It was better not to care but sometimes, people got in. Like a knife against armor, they found the cracks, slid past the guard, and you didn’t know how deep they were buried until they were gone and you were bleeding on the floor.

Three smalls words rest in the center of the page.I remember you.

You've given me so much, Henry. But I need you to do one more thing." Her forehead presses against his. "I need you to remember.